


The Gold of Your Body

by azephirin



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Accidental BDSM, Catholicism as a Gateway Drug to BDSM, Consensual Kink, Devotional Objects That Are Also Kink Toys, Established Relationship, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Greenwich Village, Immortal Husbands Fuck Their Way Through The Centuries, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Kink Discovery, Light Masochism, M/M, Masochist Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Masturbation, New York City, Paris (City), Pre-Canon, Roman Catholicism, Rough Sex, Spanking, The Author Regrets Nothing, fluffy kink, loving kink, monasteries, sex tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25720954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: Bring me your pain, love….Unclasp it like jewels, the goldstill hot from your body. Emptyyour basket of figs. Spill your wine.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nicky | Nicolo di Genova/OMC (past)
Comments: 89
Kudos: 601





	The Gold of Your Body

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this delightful kinkmeme prompt](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/953.html?thread=5561#cmt5561), though the fic went in a different direction. Title and summary from "[Basket of Figs](https://poets.org/poem/basket-figs)," by Ellen Bass. SO MANY THANKS to thedeadparrot for encouraging, audiencing, and listening to me yell.

At their ages, after nearly nine hundred years together, and with a very healthy sex life, it’s unusual for Joe or Nicky to have wet dreams. Still, it does happen.

In fairness, it’s not a full wet dream. Instead Nicky wakes up hard, with Joe’s hand on his cock, and he buries his hands in Joe’s hair and kisses him through a moan as Joe strokes him. Nicky was on the verge of orgasm from the dream, and it doesn’t take more than a few seconds, pushing up into Joe’s touch, giving himself to Joe and to the pleasure of it, before Nicky comes.

He lies still for a moment to catch his breath, then kisses Joe more gently, loosening his grip to run his fingers through Joe’s curls and then to find Joe’s cock in the dark. He’s hard, too. “You enjoyed that,” Nicky says, and Joe answers, “Damn right.” Nicky kisses him again and then, wanting to taste Joe some more, moves down to take Joe in his mouth. Sometimes he encourages Joe to pull his hair, fuck his face, but Joe’s gasp is too vulnerable and desperate for that right now. Nicky just wants to make him feel good. He tongues behind the head, uses his fingertips on Joe’s balls the way he likes, and it’s not long for Joe, either, before he comes with a shudder in Nicky’s mouth.

Nicky licks the mess away and takes a drink of water from the glass on the nightstand, then settles back in Joe’s arms. It’s an hour or so before dawn, and he could fall back asleep, but then Joe asks, “What were you dreaming about?”

“You,” Nicky says. “But it didn’t make sense.”

“What do you mean?”

Nicky smiles and turns onto his back, pulling Joe so that his head is in the crook of Nicky’s shoulder and Nicky can look at Joe while still keeping an eye on the door. “I was at Santo Stefano”—the abbey where Nicky studied before he was ordained—“in my cell, but you were there too. I was bent over the desk, and you were using…a switch, maybe? It wasn’t a discipline, but it felt a little bit similar.”

“Like what you and your friend used to do?” There’s no charge to the words, just intimacy and curiosity: these are secrets that haven’t been secrets for centuries.

“Sort of. Although Pietro and I only ever used the discipline.” It’s is an old memory but a clear one: the rope whip with seven tails, a knot at the end of each, for the seven deadly sins. The monks had used the discipline as part of their practice of mortification of the flesh, to subjugate the body, its passions, its sins.

It had the opposite effect on Nicky.

Joe traces a fingertip around Nicky’s nipple, and he shivers even though his body is satiated. “How did it feel? In the dream, I mean.” Joe already knows how it had felt in reality: how Nicky had bitten back cries of pain and arousal; how hard he’d been as Pietro had beaten him, at first only on the back, as practice dictated, but then straying lower; how Nicky, once alone, would try to drive the sin from his mind but always, always, would fall to the temptation of making himself come, one hand on his cock and the other tracing the marks Pietro left.

“So good. You were using it on my ass and thighs, and it hurt, it stung, but I wanted more, and I was so hard. I wanted your mouth on me but I didn’t want you to stop. I wished you could do both at once.”

Joe laughs, then leans up and kisses him. “If only I were so talented.” Joe rearranges them again so that his chest is against Nicky’s back. “Tonight, then,” Joe goes on. “Tonight you can bring me a switch, and you can have whatever you want.”

They may or may not actually do it: some vicissitude of life may interrupt, or they may be too tired, or they may simply feel like doing something else. But Nicky knows for certain that Joe will always give him what he wants and what he needs, and Nicky would give Joe the world and every part of himself, if he could.

+||+||+

Every Friday after Compline, for the length of a recited Misere, was the time for the discipline.

It was a ritual Nico performed dutifully if not enthusiastically: given the option, he would have spent more time in prayer or reading the scriptures, or possibly St. Augustine’s _Confessions_ or Eusebius’s martyrology. He did not feel holier or purer, just achier, after applying the discipline to himself as required: holding its wrapped-rope handle and slinging the tails over his shoulder to strike his back. Plus the Misere was abominably long, but it felt like cheating to rush through it.

So Nico used the discipline as everyone did, then sat quietly until he heard Brother Antonio, whose cell adjoined his, snoring. That was the signal for Pietro to sneak over. He and Nico could huddle on Nico’s bed, which was set against the exterior wall and thus allowed less risk that they would be overheard and caught, and talk about their day.

Genoa was a mild climate, but nights were still chilly in winter, and it felt good to have the warmth of another person. But not only that: it felt good to hold Pietro close, to be held, to whisper and share secrets, even if they were nothing more than two contraband figs Nico had taken from the tree. In another year or so, Nico and Pietro would finish their studies and be assigned to whatever parishes needed priests, and they might never see each other again, depending on where those parishes were. But for now they had their friendship and these visits, which were sweet.

Tonight Nico had an apple he’d snuck from the storeroom, and he and Pietro shared it. Nico would have to take care to dispose of the core tomorrow, so that his theft wouldn’t be discovered, but that was easily done in an abbey with extensive kitchen gardens and a small orchard. He leaned forward to set the core on the small writing desk, then back to put his arm around Pietro, who winced.

“Sorry, love, sorry,” Nico said, and took Pietro’s hand instead. _Idiot_ , Nico cursed himself: he should have remembered that Pietro was always more dedicated about the discipline than he was.

“You don’t seem to be in much pain,” Pietro said, wry; they had talked before about Nico’s ongoing failure to mortify himself properly.

“I try,” Nico said. “I just…I don’t know. I understand the theology behind it, but it’s boring and it hurts.”

“It’s supposed to hurt; that’s the whole point.”

“Maybe you should do it,” Nico said. “You seem to know how.”

He didn’t actually expect Pietro to take him seriously, but Pietro’s response was thoughtful. “I could,” Pietro said. “I mean…I’ve never heard of someone doing it to another person. But I don’t see why someone couldn’t.”

Now that the words were in the air, it didn’t seem like a terrible idea. “You could,” Nico said. “You know how to do it enough to hurt but not so much that I won’t be able to work tomorrow.”

“All the brothers you’ve annoyed with your endless questions would be so envious if they knew,” Pietro said, and Nico snorted. “We’ll start next week,” Pietro went on. “I don’t think it would be good to add to what’s there now, even if you weren’t exactly diligent about it earlier.”

Nico laughed and squeezed Pietro's hand. “Fine. I leave it to your expertise.”

They talked for another hour or so, as they always did. Pietro, who was slightly shorter, laid his head on Nico’s shoulder, and Nico traced his fingers over the back of Pietro’s hand. It would be nice, Nico thought, to fall asleep together and wake together for Vigil, to hold hands like this while offering the prayers and psalms. To give their love for God together, rather than as two separate, isolate people. But Nico did not need to ask one of his ubiquitous questions to know that those things were impossible.

+||+||+

In Paris in 1383, Nico is at the market when he notices that a rope seller has put up a stall in one of the _halles_. After twenty years in the city, he and Yusuf know most of the merchants at their respective preferred markets—Yusuf likes to go to the various specialty markets, while Nico lacks patience and would rather get everything in one place at Les Halles. Nico usually just buys food, but he always looks at the textiles in case there’s anything Yusuf might like. They’re living well within their means—in a slum, not to put too fine a point on it—so if Yusuf wants to have a new coat made, or to replace the curtains, they have the money for it.

Today’s fabrics are much the same as they’ve been on Nico’s past several visits—nothing worth reporting back to Yusuf. Neither of them have any need for rope, but Nico goes past the new stall anyway, mainly to see who the newcomer is.

The seller and most of his items are as nondescript as one might expect—but Nico freezes when he sees, hanging from a nail on one side of the stall, several rope disciplines. He hasn’t seen one since leaving Santo Stefano.

The ones for sale here are simple, only five tails, each with a single knot at the end. Those at Santo Stefano—the one Pietro had used on him—were identical, just with seven tails instead of five. Nico remembers hearing of orders that used disciplines with three knots tied in each tail and being grateful that Santo Stefano was not among them.

It has been so long since he has felt that sting, the pain that isn’t pain.

He has no idea how he could explain this to Yusuf.

He remembers putting his hands on the writing desk so that Pietro could reach his back and shoulders.

He remembers gasping the first time Pietro struck the discipline across his ass, and biting back a moan when Pietro did it again.

He buys one of the disciplines. Even though Nico isn’t wearing religious garb, the merchant seems to think little of it: many people are devout, Nico supposes, whether or not they’re members of a formal religious order. He tucks the item into the bottom of his shoulder sack—and then makes sure to set the _petits choux_ at the very top. They’re Yusuf’s favorite, he searches for them every time Nico returns from the market, and they will absolutely distract him from digging any further into Nico’s purchases.

+||+||+

Next Friday, as every day, Pietro tiptoed into Nico’s cell and tucked himself up against Nico’s side. Nico had managed to make off with a couple of pieces of the honey-walnut bread that Brother Gualtero sometimes made and that Pietro loved, and they ate them contentedly. Pietro had had a letter from his father, so he told Nico about that; Nico had read a particularly scandalous passage in the _Confessions_ , so he told Pietro about that. They sat for a while in quiet that didn’t need to be broken.

When the hour was up, Pietro moved to stand—and then looked sternly at Nico. “I didn’t forget,” Pietro said. “About what we discussed last week.”

Nico laughed. “I did.” He had remembered it earlier in the evening, after Compline, but then had been distracted by the normal parts of Pietro’s visit. He took the discipline from its place on the shelf and handed it to Pietro.

Surprisingly, Pietro looked at it like he’d never seen one before. The rope strands lay in an awkward pile in his hand, which Pietro was holding away from himself, as though the discipline was a snake that might bite him. “I’ve never…I don’t know how to do this on another person. I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice was hesitant even though he’d raised the subject.

“Aren’t you the one who said it’s supposed to hurt?” Nico said archly.

“Yes, but I meant when you do it to yourself! I’m not—I mean, you wouldn’t ask me to punch you in the face!”

“We should all be thankful that’s not part of Christian practice,” Nico said, and Pietro glared at him. Nico walked over to Pietro and put his hands on Pietro’s shoulders. “You’re not doing anything to me that I’m not supposed to be doing to myself. And it probably works the same, just in the other direction: forward rather than backward.”

“What if I hit you too hard?”

“Then I’ll pass out from the pain,” Nico said cheerfully, because he couldn’t resist, and earned another glare. Nico put his arms around Pietro, careful to avoid his shoulders and upper back. “If I can’t bear it, I’ll tell you. But you know how to do it to yourself, so why would it be different on me?”

“Alright,” Pietro said. “As long as you’ll tell me.”

“I promise,” Nico said, and stepped away. It occurred to him that he wasn’t sure exactly how they were going to do this. Pietro was shorter, so maybe Nico should bend down? The bed and the stool were too low, but perhaps the writing desk? And then there was the question of his tunic. Nico took it off when he did this to himself, so as not to damage the fabric. It would make sense to do the same now, but that would mean being naked in front of Pietro. But Nico didn’t see another way to do it, and Pietro was his best friend: if they had grown up together, they would have jumped in creeks together, taken off their clothes and swum in the sea as Nico and his brothers had done. Was this so different?

It felt different, somehow.

Nico stripped off his tunic, folded it onto the stool, and put his hands on the edge of the writing desk. He couldn’t bring himself to look back at Pietro.

The ensuing silence felt neverending. Nico was conscious of the air in the room against every part of him: his face, the back of his neck, his nipples, his belly, the insides of his thighs, even his calves. Maybe he should turn around, he thought, and tell Pietro this wouldn’t work, that it really was something to be done alone.

The first blow was a surprise, and it streaked fire down Nico’s back.

There was a long pause, and then the second came. It was lighter, and the sting almost felt good, like someone running fingernails across Nico’s skin. The third was much the same, and Nico shivered. The fourth was heavier, and Nico almost cried out before remembering himself. He was conscious of Pietro standing close to him, at just arm’s length, but Nico still couldn’t make himself look up at his friend. The fifth blow was almost gentle—there was no pain, just the sensation of something rough brushing over his skin. The sixth was lower on his back, and Nico was conscious of his bare ass, his exposed thighs. The muscles in his neck and shoulders went weak at the seventh, and he dropped his head. After that he lost count. His arms were shaking, and he realized that he was grateful to be holding on to something. He spread his legs a little, braced himself better, and he wasn’t sure whether he heard Pietro gasping or whether the sound had come from Nico himself. The next blow, whatever number it was now, came low on his back, and then the next one higher, where Pietro had started. Then the blows began to rain together, separate in fact but an unbroken line in Nico’s senses. It was a wave of sensation, some painful and some pleasurable, and Nico was biting his lip to keep from making the sounds that wanted to come out.

Then it stopped.

Maybe a Misere had gone by, maybe two, maybe ten.

There was a hushed sound of rope dropping on wood—the shelf—and then the door opened and closed quietly.

Nico realized he was alone.

His back, from shoulder blades to small, felt hot, almost glowing. There was no ache, just the blush of heat; if Pietro had put his hand there, Nico thought, his palm would have felt cool. Nico realized that his legs were trembling.

Nico had no way of looking at himself—there were certainly no mirrors within the monastery—so he stood up and reached back as best he could to try to assess his wounds. But there didn’t seem to be any, not really: he could feel a few small welts from the heavier blows, but nothing actually worse than he’d ever done to himself, and there was no blood on his fingertips when he looked at them.

He put his tunic back on, and the warmth radiating from his skin was even stronger against the cloth.

He slept on his stomach, uneasily.

+||+||+

They share a single room that is by no means expansive. It’s not a good place to hide anything, and for the past 300 years Nico had nothing to hide. Now he does.

He ends up keeping the discipline in his shoulder sack: Yusuf prefers a leather purse that he attaches to his belt and, as long as the _petits choux_ are located at the top of Nico’s sack, Yusuf doesn’t investigate it unless Nico asks him to get something. Yusuf trusts him, and that’s what hurts, the idea of hiding something from him. But Nico can’t think how to begin to explain it to him: he can’t even explain to himself why for three centuries he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the sting of the tails and how hard they made him.

Nico no longer believes that it’s a sin to give himself pleasure, and he certainly doesn’t believe it’s a sin to love Yusuf and the things they do together; if anything, Nico thinks, he’s been blessed. And he doesn’t think it’s a sin, exactly, to want to be whipped—there’s nothing in the Bible saying that it is, aside from the general proscriptions against lust that Nico now happily ignores—but it’s definitely strange. The discipline is supposed to be an instrument of devotion, not perversion. And while part of Nico can’t imagine Yusuf receiving one of his secrets with anything other than love, another part is terrified at the idea of seeing disgust in those beautiful dark eyes.

Nico and Yusuf are rarely apart, but they make an exception for Yusuf’s love of the _jeu de paume_ , which Nico finds unbearably boring: you hit a ball with your hands back and forth over a net and then someone is arbitrarily declared a winner. Yusuf, however, makes frequent trips to the outdoor courts, sometimes as a player and sometimes as a spectator; he also plays with a group of neighbors who fashioned a net from fabric scraps that they hang from window to window across the street.

The neighborhood games, though, are not far enough away for what Nico needs to do.

On a particular Sunday afternoon, two of Yusuf’s favorites are scheduled to play. He invites Nico along, as always; Nico declines, as always. Yusuf laughs and kisses him, then leaves Nico apparently innocently at the desk with _The Book of Healing_ , which they purchased for an absurd price and have both been reading.

Nico makes himself wait, just in case Yusuf forgot something and doubles back to retrieve it. But a quarter of an hour passes, and by now Yusuf will be most of the way to the court, so Nico can be sure that he won’t return for a while.

He takes his shoulder sack from the nail by the door and finds the discipline twisted into a lump at the bottom. He unravels the strands, running the coarse rope through his fingers. It feels the same as it ever did.

He strips off his braies and shirt; the weather is mild and he wasn’t planning on going out today, so he’s not wearing anything else. He sits down on the edge of the bed and looks at the discipline again.

It’s been so long, literal lifetimes for most people, since he’s used one of these, but the memories are clear and immediate: how it will feel on his ass and his thighs, across his shoulder blades. He remembers collapsing on the straw pallet in his cell after Pietro would leave, covering his shame with the rough wool blanket, and wrapping his hand around his cock. The abrasion of the welts against the rough cover of the pallet had only aroused Nico more.

He’s getting hard now just thinking about it.

Nico strokes himself. From the position he’s in, he can picture Yusuf in front of him kissing the insides of his thighs while Nico runs his fingers through Yusuf’s soft curls and over his face and the rasp of his beard. He loves touching Yusuf gently, as if everything Nico feels for him can be communicated through their skin, and loves fucking Yusuf slowly, drawing it out, so that both of them savor every sensation until Yusuf is saying Nico’s name over and over in the most delicious whispers and they’re too lost in each other to think. And he loves lying in Yusuf’s arms, surrendering to Yusuf’s mouth and hands, letting Yusuf have every part of him. But Nico also loves it when Yusuf pulls his hair and thrusts hard into his mouth, when Yusuf takes him fast and rough, maybe pinning him down as Nico pushes back up against him, when they fuck with teeth and leave bruises that heal disappointingly quickly.

It’s on this thought that Nico snaps the discipline over his shoulder and strikes his back with the knots.

He gasps: it’s the same fire he remembers, and his cock jerks in his hand. Still sitting, he hits himself the same way two more times, then another two. The pain doesn’t linger the way it used to, but it’s also new each time, the same hot sting with no irritation or ache.

Nico stands up and turns the discipline to his ass, and he can’t help moaning as it hits: the knots are like five bites to his skin. He hits lower, so that the strands wrap around his thighs; his cock is slick now with wet warmth. He imagines bending over for Yusuf to do this to him—over the desk, maybe, with his legs spread, or over the side of their bed—but then shies away from it. This is some twisted desire of Nico’s, and nothing he should involve Yusuf in.

But his mind won’t let him erase Yusuf from the fantasy: Yusuf whipping him and then running a fingertip down his back, across his ass, maybe slapping him across the marks. In the fantasy they don’t disappear, and Yusuf’s fingers would caress the welts before he whips Nico again.

Nico strikes his back again, then the backs of his thighs, then his back again before letting himself have a stroke across his ass. He could easily come in the next minute if he keeps his hand on his cock, so he moves it to lean against the bedpost—but his nipples are hard, and he can’t resist teasing one. If he hits hard and fast enough, the sting is constant and the heat builds—

And then the door opens. Yusuf is home.

“My love, I’m back early,” Yusuf says, closing the door and turning as he always does to set the latch. Nico drops the discipline—he can’t think of anything else to do with it—but of course nothing can hide his arousal. The door secured, Yusuf turns back in his direction—and immediately grins. “Niccolò!” he exclaims. “I had no idea Avicenna was so exciting!”

Nico should laugh. There doesn’t need to be anything terrible about this situation: it’s a lazy afternoon, Nico has nowhere to be and nothing he needs to do, and perhaps he missed his lover. He and Yusuf have surprised each other before: once, memorably, when Yusuf was on their bed with his cock in his fist and three fingers in his ass. Nico simply bent down and kissed him, then bent lower and sucked him, and Yusuf had come, shuddering, in Nico’s mouth. Today doesn’t have to be any different.

But Nico freezes, and Yusuf’s expression turns from delight to concern. “Niccolò?”

“What are you doing here?” is what Nico blurts out.

“Estienne injured his ankle and they had to call the game off, so I went home to read Avicenna with you,” Yusuf says, his concern now mixing with confusion. “Is something wrong?”

“I didn’t know you were coming home,” Nico says, stupidly.

“I didn’t either. Like I said, Estienne got hurt and the match was cancelled. I didn’t care about the players who were up next, so I came back.” The confusion on Yusuf’s face is sliding into hurt now. “Should I leave?”

“No!” Nico says: that’s one question, at least, he can answer definitively. “I just—I didn’t know—or I wouldn’t have—”

“I don’t understand what’s wrong,” Yusuf says. “We’ve caught each other before. In Samarkand—” Yusuf had walked in on Nico and wasted no time opening himself up and sliding down onto Nico’s cock. They had gone slow, and Yusuf had sucked Nico’s fingers into his mouth while Nico teased Yusuf’s balls and the head of his cock. It had been winter, with a fire going, and Nico can remember how the light of the flames painted Yusuf’s skin and reflected in his eyes.

“It’s different,” Nico says miserably.

“Because you were standing up?” Yusuf looks completely bewildered now. He doesn’t even remove his purse, just walks and takes Nico’s face in his hands. “What is it, Niccolò?”

Naked and unsteady, unable to escape from Yusuf’s loving, worried gaze, Nico can't help darting his eyes down to the floor, where the discipline now lies. Yusuf, of course, follows his gaze, and his eyes widen. “Oh, my heart, you didn’t tell me—”

“I was never going to tell you!”

There’s a long silence, and then Yusuf bends down and picks up the discipline. The sight of it in his elegant hands makes Nico’s stomach churn. “I haven’t—” Yusuf starts, and Nico grabs the discipline from him and throws it across the room. There’s another pause. “I was only going to say,” Yusuf adds, “that I’ve never seen one made of rope before.”

It takes Nico a moment to process the words. “What do you mean, you’ve never seen one made of rope?”

“Just what I said. I’ve seen something similar, but the strands were made of leather.”

Nico had no idea. “In Islam, you—” he starts to ask.

Yusuf cuts him off, laughing. “No, not in Islam! In a in a bordello in Cairo.”

Nico can’t help pursuing that line of inquiry. “What in the world were you doing in a bordello, my heart?”

“Entertaining a buyer, of course. He was a man of…encompassing tastes, so I found one that was renowned for diverse offerings.”

“Did you accept any of the offerings?”

“No, I was on the clock. My father and I closed a very profitable deal with him the next day.” Yusuf sighs. “My love, lie down with me and tell me what all this is about.” He unbuckles his purse from his belt, and Nico helps him out of his tunic and hose. Yusuf takes off his braies and shirt and leaves them on the bench, then lies down on the bed with Nico and pulls the curtains from the frame. There’s no need for them in this weather, but it makes the world feel tiny and intimate, like nothing exists but the two of them.

Yusuf pulls Nico close, and his fingers lightly stroke Nico’s hair. “So you like this toy—”

“It’s not a toy!”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s—it’s an object of devotion!”

Yusuf stares. “An…object of devotion for sex?”

“No! For God!”

“Nico, you were…aroused. And naked.”

Nico looks away. “It’s called a discipline, and it’s supposed to purify the body from sin. But I…I perverted it.”

Yusuf’s eyebrows are near his hairline. “So the idea is that you strike yourself with it? To drive sin out of the body?”

“‘Blows that wound cleanse away evil; beatings purify the innermost parts,’” Nico answers, quoting Proverbs.

Yusuf’s eyebrows remain elevated. “When I said I saw the…discipline’s twin in a bordello, I wasn’t lying or exaggerating. And it was one of many objects they had for the same purpose, which was not to purify everyone’s innermost parts. Though I’m sure they made the innermost parts happy in other ways.”

“Yusuf!”

“I’m just saying, those things weren’t there for any kind of religion. They were there for sex.”

“Did you ever use one?” Nico ventures. “There or somewhere else?”

“No. I was never interested in having one used on me, and I didn’t meet anyone who wanted one used on them. Well. Until three hundred years ago during a siege in Jerusalem. Though I didn’t know it at the time, and apparently you were never planning on telling me.”

“Because it’s perverse,” Nico says, looking away again. “And I didn’t want to involve you in that.”

“What if I want to be involved?” Yusuf counters.

“What— why—”

“Because it’s something you want, and because it makes you so hard that you were flushed pink and your cock looked like it was about to explode. And for the same reason that you will lick my ass for half a day but don’t want me to do it in return.” It’s true: Nico can keep Yusuf sobbing on the edge of orgasm for hours by tonguing his hole, but when Yusuf has tried it on Nico, it has about the same effect as putting his tongue up Nico’s nose.

Yusuf runs his hand up and down Nico’s spine, gentle and almost hypnotic, and Nico slowly relaxes, with Yusuf’s heartbeat under his ear and Yusuf’s touch all around him. It feels like they’re suspended in time together.

Yusuf’s hand dips down to Nico’s ass and then back up again, still caressing, still gentle. “Would you like that, my love?” he asks, his hand still moving slowly. “If I whipped you?”

Nico closes his eyes and breathes, “Yes.”

“I’d like that. I’d like to turn your ass bright red and stroke your cock while I do it.” Nico shivers, and Yusuf adds, “Or maybe you could stroke it yourself and show me how hard it makes you.”

They’ve done that many times over the years, touch themselves while the other watches, and Nico loves it: the intensity of Yusuf’s eyes on him, the sight of Yusuf lost in pleasure, his head thrown back, his muscles tense in sharp relief in the moments before he comes. “Yes,” Nico says again, and leans up to kiss Yusuf.

“I could fuck you afterwards,” Yusuf goes on, almost thoughtfully. “You’d already be bent over for me. Would your legs be spread?”

For the first time in this unexpected afternoon, Nico starts to smile. “Definitely. You wouldn't even need to ask.”

Yusuf shifts so that they’re facing each other. He runs his hand through Nico’s hair, and Nico wraps a leg around Yusuf’s hip. They’re both half hard, but it isn’t urgent—nothing, Nico realizes, feels urgent right now. He kisses Yusuf again, and they wrap themselves closer together, their hips moving lazily, everything unhurried.

“Will you make me a promise?” Yusuf says.

“Anything,” Nico replies.

“Don’t wait three hundred years next time. If you want something, whatever it is, if it’s in my power to give and maybe even if it isn’t—”

Nico presses their foreheads together and then gives Yusuf another kiss. “I promise.”

+||+||+

When he got up early Saturday morning for Vigil, Nico worried that things might be strange between himself and Pietro, who hadn’t even said good night. But Pietro knelt next to him for the prayers as always and joined him in the garden for work after Prime. If Pietro didn’t think anything was off, Nico decided, then there was no reason for Nico to think so. They sat together for dinner and again for supper, working together in between their study time and prayers, and once Brother Antonio’s snoring gave the signal, Pietro arrived in Nico’s cell as always. Nico had been so unsettled that he hadn’t managed any treats today, but Pietro didn’t seem to mind. They sat close and talked about everything and nothing, the same as ever, and Pietro left after about an hour so that they wouldn’t be too sleepy for Vigil. A day they’d had hundreds of times before.

The week continued as such, and Nico’s discomfit settled. On Monday he managed to pilfer some cheese and bread for Pietro’s visit, with other surprises on the following nights. By Friday—sausage, which was reserved for feast days and whose theft carried a corresponding risk of severe punishment—everything was entirely normal.

Nico and Pietro shared the sausage companionably. The talk of the day was the departure of the Genoese and Pisan fleets to take the Caliphate, which was exciting but also seemed very far away—another world, really, from the cloistered life of Santo Stefano. The idea of going even as far as Pisa, never mind Africa, seemed almost ludicrous.

When the hour was up, Pietro rose, and this time he picked up the discipline himself and smiled at Nico without hesitation. If Pietro was not shy, Nico thought, then there was no reason for Nico to be. He pulled off his tunic and folded it on the stool, then bent over the writing desk as he had before.

This time Pietro started slow and light. Nico was confused—this hardly seemed like mortification—but the rush of the rope across his back was pleasant, almost ticklish, and he didn’t argue. Nico arched his neck and flexed his shoulder blades, enjoying the release of the resulting cracks, and he relaxed into his position over the desk, letting Pietro do as he would.

Pietro covered Nico’s back with those brushstrokes, and Nico settled into their rhythm. He still wasn’t sure this counted as putting to death the deeds of the body, as the apostle Paul had taught the Romans long ago, but it was nevertheless a surrender in its own way, giving control over what Nico felt and how he felt it to someone else.

Pietro directed one of those strokes over Nico’s ass, and he shivered. Nico was suddenly aware of how close the discipline was to his cock, to the hidden places between his cheeks and on the insides of his thighs—and how close Pietro was to those places, just the length of his arm and the discipline's tails. Close enough to touch.

The next stroke was in the same place but harder, and Nico had to bite back a gasp before it turned into a moan. The next was across his thighs, then across the very top of his crack, returning to his shoulders before going back down to his ass: once, twice, and several more times that Nico couldn’t count because he was busy clenching his fingers against the wood and trying to keep his knees steady. Pietro laid the next one hard across his ass, and Nico choked back a cry; the next was even harder, maybe at Pietro’s full strength, and this time Nico’s knees did buckle. Pietro didn’t stop, but he lightened up for the next few. Nico could hear his own harsh breaths, almost like sobs. He didn’t feel like he was crying but rather like there wasn’t enough air in the world for what he needed.

Pietro worked over Nico’s thighs several times, enough that Nico’s body squirmed to get away despite himself. Pietro did one hard stroke against Nick’s shoulders, then against his thighs, then over his ass, then a second and a third time.

Then Pietro put the discipline back on the shelf, left, and closed the door behind him.

Nico was harder than he’d ever been in his life.

He managed to get himself to his pallet, where the coarse cloth rubbed against the abrasions from the whipping—which only made Nico harder. He wrapped one hand around his cock and used the other to trace over the marks Pietro had left on him, the welts and tender places. Nico thrust up into his hand, fast and desperate. Nico’s ass had the most marks, and Nico thought about Pietro standing behind him, deciding where to lay the next stroke, looking over Nico’s naked body and his ass bared for him, maybe seeing Nico’s erection and whipping him harder for it—

Nico came with the crook of his elbow over his mouth to muffle his cry.

+||+||+

It’s a rainy evening, the kind that’s wretched if you’re outside but cozy if you happen to be naked with your lover in the bed you share, arms around each other and his thigh between yours. Nico sighs and draws Yusuf closer, works himself languorously against Yusuf’s leg, and Yusuf kisses him. Nico could roll onto his back, pull Yusuf on top of him and whisper how much he wants to be fucked—Yusuf loves it when he does that. He could also push Yusuf supine, which means that Yusuf will probably wrap his legs around Nico’s hips and invite Nico to fuck him. When Yusuf gives himself to Nico, he does it with abandon, letting his wrists fall above his head for Nico to pin if he pleases, smiling up at Nico and urging him in as deep as he can go.

It’s a difficult choice to make, and Yusuf ends up making it for them—and, of course, his decision is entirely different from what Nico expected.

Yusuf cups the curve of Nico’s ass in his hand, and Nico _mmmmm_ s contentedly. While he doesn’t especially like having his hole licked, he enjoys when Yusuf rubs it for a while and then fingers him; sometimes Nico comes just from that, without Yusuf even touching his cock. He presses back into Yusuf’s palm, and Yusuf murmurs, “Shall I whip you, my love?”

Nico didn’t think it was possible for his cock to get harder, and yet.

“Do you want to?” Nico murmurs back. He doesn’t know why he’s speaking softly, but it seems appropriate, somehow. It’s been two weeks since Yusuf walked in on Nico with the discipline, and neither of them has brought it up—Nico wasn’t scared to, exactly, but he also wasn’t sure how to ask.

“I told you that I want to turn your ass bright red,” Yusuf answers. “I don’t know whether it’s possible, healing as we do, but I’d like to find out.”

“I want you to,” Nico says. “Do whatever you can to me.”

After their conversation two weeks ago, the discipline found its way under the bed and has stayed there. They pull apart, and Yusuf reaches under the bedframe to pull it out.

The sight of it in his hands is unsettling, disconcerting.

Yusuf must see the expression on Nico’s face, because he says gently, “Not the time after all, my heart?” and moves to put the discipline back.

“No,” Nico says. “I mean, yes. It’s the time. But not with that.”

It’s a relic of the monastery, Nico realizes, an object of the time and place that taught him to hate Yusuf and everyone like him before Nico had ever laid eyes on them. The discipline should not be in his hands, in their home, in their bed.

“That doesn’t belong here.,” Nico says. He takes the discipline from Yusuf, rises, and puts it by the fireplace to burn.

Yusuf, unaccountably, is smiling. “Nico,” he says, “please get me my purse.”

As always, it’s hanging by the door on a nail next to Nico’s shoulder sack. Nico gets it and hands it to Yusuf, who leans back against the wall and holds out his arm.

Nico accepts the offer, of course, and rests his head on Yusuf’s shoulder. Yusuf is only slightly taller—about a _pouce_ —but Nico can make it work if he slouches a little.

To Nico’s surprise, Yusuf passes the purse back to him. “Look inside,” Yusuf says.

Nico does, and discovers a piece of leather lying at the bottom. He takes it out and holds it up, raising his eyebrows as inquiry, and Yusuf nods.

It’s a simple, narrow length of brown leather, about a _pouce_ wide and a _pied du roi_ long, a bit shorter than Nico’s arm from elbow to wrist, stitched on all four sides.

Nico is missing something.

“I think that,” Yusuf says, “would do much better against your ass than a piece of rope.” Nico’s jaw drops. “Do you not agree?” Yusuf adds.

For a moment Nico is silent with shock. “Where in the world did you get this?” is what comes out of his mouth first.

“The harness maker at Les Halles had some scraps, and this one seemed like a good size. I had him finish and stitch the sides.” Yusuf delivers these sentences perfectly straightforwardly, as though there is nothing noteworthy at all about going to the largest market in Paris and purchasing a custom-made object to whip one’s lover.

Nico can’t help running his fingers over the smooth surface and even stitching. Owning no horses, Nico has never had cause to buy anything from the harness maker, but he knows him by reputation: he is expensive and does good work. And suddenly Nico can’t help laughing: though Yusuf hasn’t been a merchant for many years, he still won’t accept anything but fine-quality goods. Even goods intended to whip his lover when they fuck.

Nico puts the strap down by the bolster and kisses Yusuf. “I love you,” Nico says, “and you surprise me every day even after almost three hundred years.”

They curl up together again, and this time Nico rolls onto his back so that Yusuf is between his legs. “You can turn my ass bright red,” Nico says, “and then bend me over the bed and fuck me. Give it to me so hard that I don’t know my own name. Can you do that?”

Yusuf twists his hand in Nico’s hair. “The question isn’t whether I can do it. You know I can fuck you so deep you’ll taste my dick tomorrow. The question is whether you can take it.”

“Why don’t you stop talking and find out?”

Yusuf shoves Nico’s hands over his head and holds them down as he kisses Nico ferociously and openmouthed. He’s thrusting against Nico and kissing him with the same tempo, so that Nico knows exactly what rhythm he’s going to get fucked with. Nico can’t wait.

Yusuf bites at Nico’s nipples, then sucks them gently and grins when Nico whimpers. He sucks what won’t be a bruise for long on Nico’s throat, and Nico pushes up against him and bares his neck so that Yusuf will do it again. Yusuf bites him there, then on the tendon of his shoulder, then on his upper arm. Nico struggles against Yusuf’s hold, but Yusuf doesn’t let him up. “Fuck me, you asshole,” Nico hisses.

Yusuf does let him up then, but only to point to the edge of the bed. “Get over that,” he tells Nico, “and spread your legs. Keep your hands above your head.”

Nico is not about to disobey. He does as commanded, arching his back in the way he knows Yusuf likes, although he doesn’t spread as wide as he could: it’s always fun when Yusuf pushes his legs apart. Nico’s expecting to get fingered or fucked, depending on how rough Yusuf wants to be, but instead there’s a stinging slap to his ass, and Nico realizes that it came from Yusuf’s hand.

There’s another, and another, and they feel incredible, like sharp, sun-hot rays through the haze of Nico’s arousal. Yusuf sends one to the inside of Nico’s thigh, making him gasp, and then two more to the round of his ass and the spot below it. Yusuf keeps going, never striking the same place twice in a row so that each slap is a surprise, a burst of red on Nico’s skin, like hot coals in a fire. His cock is pumping precome against the sheets.

But this isn’t what Nico came here for.

“I thought you bought a strap,” he says to Yusuf. “Are you afraid to use it?”

Yusuf gives him a particularly hard slap but reaches for the piece of leather: he can never resist a dare.

The leather is heavier than Yusuf’s hand and goes deeper somehow. Each stroke radiates out, lighting up not just the point of impact but everything around it. Unlike the delicious but brief sting of Yusuf’s hand, the sensation from the leather doesn’t disappear immediately. The heat and tenderness build, and it feels like Yusuf is painting Nico’s ass with pain that isn’t exactly pain.

The leather licks the spot between Nico’s ass and thigh, and his hips jerk. His cock is still rubbing against the sheets, enough to keep him hard but too rough to make him come. Yusuf lets the leather wrap into Nico’s crack, sending a cry from his throat. Yusuf does it again—and then gets the idea to part Nico’s cheeks with his hand so that the strap can reach the tender areas between them. Nico maybe tries to get away but succeeds only in driving his cock harder against the bed.

“Get on all fours,” Yusuf orders, and Nico does. He hears Yusuf getting the oil they use, then climbing onto the bed to kneel behind him. Yusuf’s fingers press inside him, one and then two, clever and precise on the place that makes Nico drop his head and groan. He loves this—but he also really wants to be fucked.

“Get inside me, dickhead,” Nico says, and Yusuf gives him another slap across the ass. But Yusuf doesn’t actually delay, and his first push into Nico’s body makes both of them moan. Yusuf grips Nico’s hip with one hand and the back of Nico’s neck with the other, and Nico is exposed, splayed, delightfully and deliberately helpless. Yusuf’s thrusts are rough and deep, hitting that same good spot, and Nico’s elbows give out. Yusuf hitches up Nico’s hips and pulls his legs farther apart, then drives in harder. “Fuck yes,” Nico says; he feels loose, open, almost drunk. “Split me open on your cock.” Yusuf bites Nico’s nape, sharp and possessive, and Nico manages, “Kiss me.” It’s messy, filthy, and Nico gasps into Yusuf’s mouth as Yusuf reaches underneath to get a hand around him. Nico is caught, surrounded by Yusuf and at his mercy, and it only takes one last thrust for Nico to come, shuddering between Yusuf’s cock and his hand, calling his name like a desperate prayer. Yusuf follows almost immediately, and Nico relishes the hot rush inside him and Yusuf’s fingers clenching at his hip.

They collapse forward onto the bed, still joined. As they catch their breath, Yusuf winds his fingers into Nico’s hair, gentle now, and sighs his name. Even though they’re both slick with sweat, Yusuf nuzzles Nico’s hairline and underneath his ears. “My soul,” Yusuf murmurs, and Nico murmurs back, “My life.”

They separate and rearrange themselves to kiss more easily. Yusuf smiles down at him, and Nico thinks that while they know at least eight languages between them, there aren’t words in those tongues or any other to describe what he feels for this man.

+||+||+

As the weeks went by, the tenor of Friday nights shifted. Every other night of the week, Nico and Pietro sat together and talked like they always had. However, after a couple of months of Fridays, Pietro began picking up the discipline as soon as he closed the door after walking in. Nico began to look forward to Fridays with such anticipation that he struggled not to be visibly hard when Pietro arrived. Nico still hadn’t figured out how Pietro determined the length of his whippings: if Pietro was clocking them by the Misere, he must recite it one letter at a time. Not that Nico was complaining.

Pietro always left immediately afterward, though. On the one hand this was fine, because Nico then dropped to his pallet to relieve the tension that had built up (which certainly contravened the principles of corporal mortification, but Nico had decided not to think about that). On the other hand, Nico thought it might be nice if Pietro stayed, though he wasn’t sure exactly why or what might happen if he did. Maybe they could just sit for a while, like on regular nights. Maybe Nico would enjoy being close to Pietro while his body was still flushed and warm; maybe Pietro would enjoy it, too. It was his handiwork, after all.

Nevertheless, things continued as they had, and Pietro always left.

It was summer now, and tonight there was a breeze from the water. It seemed to wash the front of Nico’s body while the discipline bathed the back, and Nico felt like he was floating in the sensation, disconnected from time or reality. He could sense, vaguely, that he was aroused, but it seemed distant compared to the caress of the air and the almost metronomic slap of the rope up and down and back again from his shoulders to his thighs. Some time passed; Nico didn’t know or care how much. All he cared about was standing here, feeling the wood under his hands and the discipline against his skin.

And then it stopped.

It was a fight to get his mind back to his surroundings. He knew that he was going to need to stand up, but he’d almost forgotten how. He also knew to expect the sound of the door shutting behind Pietro, but then that didn’t happen, and it was confusing.

Instead Pietro was standing next to him, and he had a small jar of something in his hand. “I, uh, Brother Tommaso gave me this salve when I scraped my leg on Tuesday, and I thought maybe, um, on your back?”

Nico nodded. He didn’t feel pain now, just a honeylike warmth suffusing his body, but he would have agreed to anything Pietro suggested.

Whatever was in the jar smelled like pine and beeswax. Nico stayed as he was, and Pietro began to spread it over his shoulders. Nico shivered at Pietro’s hands on his bare skin, but Pietro didn’t pause, just kept rubbing in the salve, moving lower to the center of Nico’s back, and then the small, and then, unbelievably, to Nico’s ass. Nico took a sudden breath as Pietro’s fingers found the marks and gently applied the salve there and to his thighs.

Then Pietro put the jar on the desk and picked up Nico’s tunic. “Does that feel better?” he asked.

“Yes,” Nico said, and stood up unsteadily.

He took the tunic from Pietro and put it back on. Pietro was smiling at him. Nico felt a rush of something that he couldn’t name—desire, affection, gratitude—and he ran his hands through Pietro’s hair. He had never done that before, but he wanted to touch, to give Pietro something close to what Pietro had given him, even in a small way. Pietro didn’t object, just kept looking up at Nico, and Nico kissed him.

Pietro’s mouth opened under his, and Pietro made a small, vulnerable sound that curled heat into Nico’s belly. Nico had never kissed anyone before, and it was decidedly strange, a dance of tongues and lips, plus his nose kept interfering, but it was also close and intimate, tasting and knowing each other with their bodies pressed together in this new way.

Until Pietro yanked himself away, out of Nico’s arms, with an expression like Nico had hit him. “I’m not a sodomite!”

It took Nico’s brain a moment to pull itself out of the kiss, out of the dreamy fog of what they’d done before, and focus on the words Pietro had said. Nico had only a vague concept of what a sodomite actually was, except that it involved two men having sex. “We’re not—” he started.

“You shall not lie with a man as you do with a woman, for it is an abomination!”

Nico still hadn’t quite caught up: five minutes Pietro had been putting salve on him with warm, careful hands, and now Pietro was spitting Leviticus at him like rotten food. “I’ve never lain with anyone,” Nico said. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Because we’re not supposed to lie with anyone! St. Paul says we should put to death whatever is worldly in us: fornication, perversion, passion, lust.”

“Yes, I’ve also read Colossians,” Nico snapped, finally starting to get angry. “And you kissed me too. It wasn’t just me.”

“You tempted me,” said Pietro, looking away. “This was all your idea to begin with.”

“I remember that you agreed to it pretty quickly. And it was definitely your idea to rub that salve all over my ass a few minutes ago. So I don’t know who’s tempting whom, Pietro.”

“Flesh is weak,” Pietro said. He still wasn’t looking at Nico. But then Pietro’s face hardened, and he turned back to meet Nico’s eyes. “If your right hand leads you to sin, cut it off and cast it from you. It is better to lose a part of your body than to have all of it go to hell.”

“I’ve read Matthew too,” Nico said. “What are you even saying?”

“That you’re leading me into sin. You’ve already led me into sin. And it’s better for me not to—not to see you or talk to you than to go to hell.”

Pietro left then, and he kept his word. There were no more nights—not even normal ones—after Compline. Pietro took a new place during prayers and masses, next to Brother Gualtero at the opposite end of the pew in front of Nico’s. If they were assigned to work together, they spoke only as much as was necessary to accomplish their tasks.

Six months later, Father Giovanni, the abbot of Santo Stefano, called Nico into his office and said that he knew of a large church in Rome, well connected to the Holy See, with an opening for a parochial vicar. Nico didn’t feel ready to actually minister to a congregation—and particularly a congregation in a city he’d never seen that was several days’ travel from the only place he’d ever lived—but the other option was staying and seeing Pietro every day. So Nico said yes. And six years later, when the call went out for able-bodied Christian men to defend the Holy City, Nico said yes then, too, because there was nothing to keep him where he was.

+||+||+

It’s not for a few days after Nicky’s dream that he remembers it again, and what Joe said. He’s walking down Christopher Street on his way home to the apartment that he and Joe have shared since leaving Cuba six years ago. It’s a neighborhood of old buildings that collect people the larger society likes to throw away: immigrants, racial minorities, men and women who live with other men and women, people who defy society’s dictates about being a man or a woman at all. It’s a neighborhood where two men of different races living together don’t particularly stand out.

It’s also, recently, home to a store whose door reads “Must Be Over 21 to Enter,” and whose shop window currently displays two male mannequins: one wearing what Nicky can only describe as a leather harness with a matching collar, and the other wearing chaps and a hood that covers its full head. A variety of many-tailed floggers hang from the ceiling.

The products themselves don’t really appeal to Nicky: he thinks the harness would look good on Joe’s muscular body, which is no more than the truth, but it’s just a passing thought, not enough to actually draw him into the store. And the floggers, though their numerous and finely cut leather strands put them in a category all their own, remind Nicky too much of the monastery’s disciplines. But Nicky loves the fact that the store exists: that even though most of the United States and much of the world deems it illegal for him and Joe to fuck, this store has opened for business and is brash, unafraid, and unashamed.

Though Nicky’s not interested in the floggers, they do remind him of the conversation he and Joe had several nights ago. _You can bring me a switch,_ Joe had said, _and you can have whatever you want_. Switches are not necessarily easy to come by in densely built Manhattan—but Nicky and Joe live the next block over on Bedford Street, which is lucky to have a few sidewalk trees surviving from earlier times when this was a wealthy area. A few yards from the front door to their building, Nicky takes the knife he has closest to hand and cuts a slender branch from one of the trees. He strips off the twigs and tries to leave as even a surface as he can: he loves the idea of Joe whipping him, but he doesn’t love the idea of puncture wounds. Smiling to himself, Nicky puts the branch in his backpack and carefully arranges it around the wrapped babka that he bought at a bakery on Second Avenue during his lunch break earlier in the day.

Joe is already home, and dinner is almost ready. Nicky thinks he smells shakshouka, and the eggs at the top of the pot confirm that he’s right. On the table is a basket covered with a napkin, which means that Joe has made bread to go with it. Nicky puts down his backpack and kisses him. “You’re my favorite.”

“Your favorite what?” Joe asks.

“My favorite cook, for sure.” Joe nips him, and Nicky laughs. “It smells delicious.”

They eat, then wash up and refrigerate the leftovers for other lunches and dinners. “I brought dessert,” Nicky says as he’s drying the last of the dishes and Joe is making tea.

“What did you get?”

“It’s in my backpack.” Nicky deliberately keeps his voice nonchalant.

Joe pours the boiling water into the teapot, filling the air with the fragrance of mint, then finds Nicky’s backpack by the door and opens it. Nicky watches out of the corner of his eye as Joe’s eyebrows cock like he’s about to ask a question—and then as he grins, having answered that question for himself. Joe stands up, holding both items that Nicky intended for him to find, and looks from one to the other. “I don’t know which dessert I want first.”

“I’ve never see you uncertain about babka before.”

“That’s because I’ve never had to choose between babka and marking up your ass with a switch.”

Nicky goes over and takes both from Joe’s hands. “You don’t actually have to choose. We can have babka and tea, and then you can do whatever you want to my ass.”

“I won’t even remember what it tastes like if that’s what I’m thinking about the whole time.” Joe says. He pours the tea, adds honey, and puts the mugs onto a tray. “We’re going into the bedroom,” he goes on, “and I’m going to drink this while you undress for me.”

“I don’t get any tea?”

“You can have yours when you’re naked.”

Nicky would argue, but he actually doesn’t like his tea as close to boiling hot as Joe does. He puts the babka in the breadbox; then, just to enjoy Joe’s expression, he sets the switch on the tray with the tea. Cutting in front of Joe, Nicky pulls off his shirt and drops it on the floor, knowing full well that Joe hates seeing clothes anywhere but the laundry hamper, dresser, or closet.

“I’m going to give it to you even harder for that,” Joe says, low.

Nicky turns and smiles serenely. “I’m counting on it.”

In an apartment this size, it takes about five steps to reach the bedroom. Joe puts the tray on the nightstand, picks up one of the mugs to drink from, and watches Nicky avidly. Nicky undresses the rest of the way, leaving the clothes where they fall. Joe stands up and kisses him, hard, and says, “You are maddening.” Joe tastes like honey and mint. He’s still fully dressed, and Nicky shivers at the rough drag of Joe’s jeans and the wool of his sweater against his bare skin. Nicky tugs the sweater up and off, as Joe raises his arms to help, and they strip him together until they’re both naked.

Joe pushes Nicky against the wall and pins his hands. Nicky leans forward and kisses him again, then says, “How can I suck you if you’re holding me in place?”

Joe swears and lets him go, and Nicky drops to his knees. He teases Joe for a while, dropping light kisses up and down his cock, then flicking his tongue along the underside before breathing hot over the head. Joe lets out a little whimper and buries a hand in Nicky’s hair. It’s gentle, though, like Joe’s grounding himself, and Nicky rubs his face against Joe’s cock, runs his hands up Joe’s legs, telling Joe through touch that he’s here and he loves him.

Then Nicky closes his mouth over Joe’s head and shaft, and Joe cries out.

Nicky caresses Joe’s balls and rubs the spot behind them, and Joe thrusts into his mouth, though Nicky isn’t sure he meant to. Nicky sucks harder, encouraging Joe’s thrusts, and Joe moans deliciously. Nicky thinks he might make Joe come like this—which means that it’s time to stop.

“Demon,” Joe gasps.

Nicky stands up and kisses Joe, letting him taste his precome on Nicky’s tongue. “I’m not done with you,” Nicky tells him.

“I’m not done with you,” Joe fires back. “You know what you have coming.”

Nicky pulls one of their pillows to the middle of the bed and drapes himself over it. “Why don’t you remind me?”

He’s expecting the bite of the switch, but instead Joe takes his time running his hands over Nicky’s back and thighs, fingering the head of his cock where it peeks from between his legs, placing little bites that are almost kisses on the curve of his ass and the back of his neck. He strokes Nicky’s hair, turns Nicky’s head to suck on his earlobes and trace his tongue over the shell of his ears. Nicky feels like his body has melted under Joe’s touch, like he’s softened wax for Joe to shape. Joe rubs Nicky’s hole, then slides slick fingers inside to rub his prostate until Nicky is raising his hips for more, fucking himself against Joe’s fingers—and that’s when Joe slaps him for the first time.

The sound Nicky makes is almost a sob as the bright flash of pain against the liquid pleasure lights up his nerves. Joe slaps him again, and Nicky doesn’t know what he craves most: his cock wants relief, his prostate wants Joe’s fingers, and his ass wants another electrifying slap.

“Look at you fucking yourself against the pillow,” Joe says softly. “You’d spread wide for my cock if I gave it to you, wouldn’t you?” Nicky does just that, and Joe laughs. “It’s not time yet, my love.”

Joe takes his fingers out, and Nicky moans in protest—and then sobs again at the stinging bite of what can only be the switch. Joe gives him another, pauses and then a third, and it’s like being lashed with flame. It’s nothing like the straps or belts they’ve used over the years since Joe bought that first one long ago in Paris: the switch is knife-sharp, almost too much, leaving what feels like a brand. Nicky’s squirming, and he doesn’t know whether it’s to escape or encourage Joe to keep going. He cries out raggedly when the switch hits the crease above his thighs, and again just slightly higher.

Joe kisses his hair. “Enough, my heart?”

“No,” Nicky whispers. He wants to feel like he’s on fire. “Don’t stop.”

Joe doesn’t.

There’s a rhythm to it, as Joe whips him and Nicky thrusts against the pillows. He’s close to orgasm, but the pain keeps him from going over the edge. It holds him there, though, a breath away from coming, and Nicky hears himself whimpering. His fingers are clenched in the sheets, his gasps harsh and desperate as the switch lays its lines across his ass—and then Joe does stop. He moves the pillow and turns Nicky over, and when Joe kisses his eyelids, Nicky realizes that they’re wet.

Joe kisses his lips and then sucks Nicky’s cock down as far as it will go, and Nicky actually screams. It takes less than a minute for him to come in Joe’s mouth, shuddering once, twice, again, until he’s limp and drained. Nicky can barely move, but he opens for Joe’s kiss, taking his own come and then passing it back until both of them taste like Nicky. “Yusuf,” Nicky says, because he likes the shape of Joe’s name anytime but especially when he feels like this, replete and suffused with love, “fuck me.”

It takes Nicky a moment to realize that he spoke in _zeneize_.

Joe kisses him again, then runs a thumb underneath one of Nicky’s eyes. “You’re crying, Niccolò.” He’s also speaking _zeneize_.

The tears are there, but Nicky doesn’t feel like he’s been crying; he just feels overflowing, full of emotions that he doesn’t have words for in any of the languages he speaks. He pulls Joe between his thighs and says in Arabic, “I love you. Now fuck me.”

Nicky loves it like this, when he’s boneless and open, when he can wind his arms around Joe and tell him how beautiful he is, how good his cock feels, how much Nicky loves him and wants him. It feels as close as they can get without actually being inside each other’s skin: knotted up together, kissing as Joe pushes all the way inside and Nicky wraps his legs around Joe’s hips. Nicky puts his hands on Joe’s face and rocks back and forth with him. “I love you, my heart,” Joe says, and Nicky pulls him deeper until Joe’s thrusts grow ragged and he buries his face in Nicky’s neck and comes, gasping Nicky’s name and gripping his back hard enough to leave the outlines of each finger.

Later, they feed each other the babka in the kitchen, naked, standing by the counter and kissing after each bite.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story, please [retweet](https://twitter.com/intent/tweet?original_referer=https%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2F&ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw&text=The%20Gold%20of%20Your%20Body%20by%20azephirin%20-%20The%20Old%20Guard%20\(Movie%202020\)&tw_p=tweetbutton&url=https%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fworks%2F25720954&via=ao3org) or [reblog](https://azephirin.tumblr.com/post/625577459829637120/fic-the-gold-of-your-body-the-old-guard)!
> 
> * * *
> 
> [The discipline](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Discipline_\(instrument_of_penance\)) is a real thing! These days their use is mostly relegated to the extremely out-there reaches of Catholicism—most notably, [Opus Dei](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opus_Dei)—but they are still around and [can even be purchased online](https://www.cilice.co.uk/product-category/disciplines/). (They're surprisingly expensive for an item whose alleged function is to cleanse the user of worldly desires.)
> 
> Also a real thing is the store Nicky passes in the last section, which is called [The Leather Man](https://the-leather-man-inc.shoplightspeed.com/service/about/). It opened on Christopher Street in the West Village in 1965 and is still there! I'm not sure it had floggers and hoods in the window then, but I've taken fic-writer's license.
> 
> [Babka](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babka) is also real, and I want some right now.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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